


In Another Time, In Another Place

by JustGettingBy



Series: Per aspera, ad astra [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Epilogue, M/M, Reincarnation, What-If, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23052112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: In every world and in every time Geralt and Jaskier know they should be together, even if things don't work out that way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Per aspera, ad astra [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601233
Comments: 44
Kudos: 942
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	In Another Time, In Another Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be a loose epilogue to my Per Aspera, Ad Astra series. I think it will still make sense if you haven't read the other fics.   
> Title is from Van Morrison's amazing song Astral Weeks, which you should really listen to in your car on a warm spring day with your windows rolled down.

In another world, it goes like this: they leave the Caingorn Mountains and head for the coast and never look back. The collective weight of destiny falls from their chests and they can finally breathe again. And they do. They smell the salt in the breeze and let their footprints live in the damp sand. It’s a reminder--they are here. They are changing destiny. They are temporary. 

In a few hours, the tide will roll in and wash away their impressions and leave behind a blank slate of a beach, ready for new lovers to press their feet into. 

They are both okay with this. 

They know they are enough for each other. 

In the West, the sun melts into the water where the edge of the world meets the sky. It pools in orange and pink and purple before it gives way to the inky sky. They sit together, hands bundled together, and watch the waves lap the shoreline until the water crawls forward and meets their bare toes. 

In the darkness, Jaskier’s head finds space in the nook of Geralt’s neck. His heart thumps slowly against his chest. A familiar beat of comfort to lull away the pain.

Geralt hears everything, always. Over the years, he’s grown accustomed to blocking out so much of the noise and scents and feelings in cities. 

Here, on the coast, Geralt allows it all to wash over him. He hears only the breaking waves and crickets and Jaskier. Always Jaskier. His heart and his breath. 

“Did we make the right choice?” Jaskier asks, his voice scarcely louder than the breeze. 

Geralt closes his eyes. He thinks of the destiny he abandoned. He thinks of the war creeping over the continent. 

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Jaskier. His light skin glows in the moonlight. His blue eyes are full and focused somewhere on the horizon. 

“I don’t know,” Geralt admits.

Jaskier breathes deeply. “We made a selfish choice.”

He’s not wrong. Geralt presses his lips against the back of Jaskier’s hand.

“But don’t we deserve some happiness too?” the bard whispers. 

They do, Geralt decides. They do. 

Come morning, they wake to the sun blinding their eyes. 

They dip in the cool water and splash in the waves. They pick strawberries from the brush and eat on the sand and crash together after, both of them sea-wicked and sun-washed. They move slow and never wish to part. 

* * *

In another world, they turn to each other in a bar outside of Posada. Geralt hears the bard’s tunes and feels his heart pitch (weak as the lyrics are) and Jaskier can’t move his eyes off the mysterious man huddled in the corner. 

They drink strong ale and explore each other’s bodies with their hands. Jaskier runs his nimble fingers through Geralt’s hair. Geralt grips the bard’s hips and lifts him against the wall of his room at the inn. 

In the morning, Jaskier finds the bed next to him is empty though the sheets smell like leather and ash. 

He never learned the other man’s name. He never sees so much as a flash of glowing yellow eyes or white hair on a young a man again.

* * *

In yet another world, they stay together after their first night in the woods. They wake in the morning and pack their campsite together. Night after night, they fall into each other’s arms again and again and again. They don’t mind if it’s under the open stars, or if they’re pressed together in a too-small bed at a cheap inn, or lounging in their private chambers at some grand court. None of it matters. They stay together. 

Geralt slays monsters and Jaskier sings his ballads and they find Ciri and they don’t shy away from the war in Nilfgaard. The fight comes—it’s brutal and bloody and strips them to their cores. 

When they come out on the other side—and they do make it through to the other end of the war—they aren’t the same. Jaskier is skittish. When the thunderclaps at night, he stiffens like a board. Geralt has nightmares. Violent ones—he dreams of blankets of firestorms and crumbling cities. More often than he’d like, he wakes with cool sweat pooling at his brow. 

In their bed, Jaskier wraps himself around Geralt’s arm. “We’re alright,” he says. 

Geralt nods and runs his fingers through the bard’s hair—now flecked with grey. “We’re alright,” he repeats. 

* * *

In another world, Jaskier stays in Oxenfurt for an extra year. 

Geralt visits a bar in Posada, enjoys his ale in silence, and heads out on his way. 

Their stars never cross. 

* * *

In another world, Geralt and Jaskier wed in Cintra, in a double ceremony with Pavetta and Duny. 

After Geralt saved Duny’s life, he insisted the Witcher marry his true love too. 

Geralt wishes he was wearing something less ridiculous. 

Jaskier insists he looks breathtaking in his blue silk. 

That night, in the chambers in the palace of Cintra, Jaskier stands behind Geralt and wraps his arms around Geralt’s chest. “What gods do I have to thank,” he whispers in the Witcher’s ear, “for giving me you?”

Geralt closes his eyes and thinks. “The only one I have to thank is you.  _ You _ are my blessing.”

* * *

In every world, Jaskier dies. 

It’s inevitable, Geralt knows. The bard is only mortal. 

He always grows old. His hair tinges grey and then streaks silver and finally pales to white. 

Sometimes, after the war, he returns to Oxenfurt and teaches. Others, he stays on the road and sings until his vocal cords give way. 

In some worlds, Jaskier leaves Geralt too early. Unfairly early after everything they went through. Geralt always wishes it were him instead. In a few worlds, it is. A wrongly timed strike with his sword, or wicked gnash of a monster's teeth. 

But mostly, Jaskier passes on and leaves Geralt alone again.

Sometimes he returns to Posada. Others, he goes to Oxenfurt. He looks for Jaskier in every inch of the world. Geralt searches for Jaskier in songs and sun and stars. His heart aches for the bard when he hears a strum of a lute or a bawdy song. 

Jaskier may be gone, but Geralt thinks death isn’t as permanent as others think. Jaskier can’t be gone—not really—not when the ocean shines the way that it does in sunlight. Not when the waves crash on the shore and the water rolls back out into the sea. 

How, Geralt thinks, can anything truly be gone? Even a forest fire leaves ash in its wake. Out of the ash, wildflowers will grow. Saplings will push through the dirt. And, one day, the forest will grow again. 

It’s only a matter of time. 

* * *

In another life, Geralt finds Jaskier selling fabric at a stall not far from the docks. The air there is acrid and the heat stifling. Noise clouds Geralt’s ears—everyone is shouting, selling wares and negotiating prices for passage on ships. 

When Geralt sees the bard, he nearly sinks to his feet. Jaskier must be the same age as when they first met in Posada. He’d forgotten how young the bard looked then. 

Jaskier smiles at him. “I’ve got just the fabric for you. It’ll bring out the...er,” Jaskier pauses, his usual sales pitch failing him, “ _ yellow  _ in your eyes.”

Geralt just stares. He doesn’t even bother to search for the right words—he knows they don’t exist. 

“Well, maybe not,” Jaskier continues, completely oblivious, “but you do look like you could use a new shirt—yours, my friend, looks a little worse for wear.”

“Hmm.” He was right, after all, the hem of Geralt’s shirt is worn and frayed. The fabric thinned over the years. 

“What do you say?” 

Geralt finally snaps out of his daze. “Why me? There’s a whole crowd here. Plenty of people with fatter purses.”

Jaskier pauses for a moment and shrugs. “You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

Geralt cracks a smile. 

The next day, they leave together on a ship heading further south than Geralt has ever been. 

* * *

In another life, Jaskier writes down the epic poems that teem from his head. He scrawls stanzas about the sword fights and monster-slaying; he creates rhymes with the courtly love and heartbreak. 

“How do you write such vivid prose?” a student, Helena, asks him. “It’s as if you really lived through these stories.”

Jaskier drums his fingers against his writing desk and stares at the blank parchment. Unlike most, it never intimidates him. In fact, there’s a quiet rush of his heart whenever he sets his quill to the unmarked parchment. “Sometimes these stories feel as if they’re writing themselves,” he tells Helena. “They’re in my head, fully formed, just begging to spring free.”

* * *

In another life, Geralt travels as far west as he can. The land there is strange; he feels alien in the world as he learns their ways. 

He goes to a temple, one day, constructed not long ago by a local lord who tried to emulate the strength of a long since fallen empire. 

The building itself is stunning with its large dome and high windows. 

It pales compared to the fresco on the far wall. Geralt studies the painting and loses himself in the fine brush strokes and blended colours. 

When he sees a familiar face in the painting, his heart leaps into his throat before sliding back down to his stomach. 

“Excuse me,” he whispers to an older woman lighting candles. “What is this painting of?”

She smiles lightly. “It’s the gods, dear. It’s quite well known.” 

Geralt feels a flush rise in his cheeks—it’s been a long time since that happened. But it’s not every day that he sees his own mostly-naked self painted on the wall of a temple. 

“And can you tell me who painted this?”

“Well, he’s a bit of a mystery, but a fellow called Jaskier did this one.”

“Where could I find him?” Geralt asks, careful not to sound over-eager. 

“Oh, my dear. I’m afraid he passed last winter. Had a terrible case of pneumonia.”

Geralt nods at the woman and turns back from the painting. In the stained-glass light, it truly is a masterpiece. His work is unrivalled around the world. 

After he spends the better part of the afternoon staring at the fresco (and avoiding the god-like version of  _ himself  _ which is just much too strange to look at) Geralt leaves the temple with a hollow feeling in his gut. The day is warm and the air smells like spring, and yet there’s a coldness in his core.

Geralt wonders if it will ever leave. 

* * *

In another life, they find each other in a big city in the dreary November rain. 

Jaskier wears a long sort of jacket in colours much duller than he ever preferred before. 

Geralt finally gave up and wore a more muted pair of slacks and a white shirt. 

In the weak lamplight, he walks the cobblestone streets and ducks into a pub at the end of the lane. It’s not raining yet, but the weather will turn soon. It always does. 

He’s sipping on beer when he hears the door rattle. 

Jaskier walks into the pub. His coat is drenched with water. He sits at the bar and sighs into his hands. 

Geralt tosses back the rest of his beer and stands next to Jaskier.

The bard’s—if Geralt can even still call him that—eyes grow wide. His blue eyes flit over Geralt’s white hair and yellow eyes and broad shoulders. He swallows dryly and doesn’t turn away. 

Geralt lets a hum of annoyance stir in his throat. This isn’t exactly how he pictured their reunion. “Is there a problem?” he spits. 

Jaskier pauses. He settles down and sinks back into his chair ever so slightly. “There’s been someone killing women, you know. They call him the butcher for well—-you can probably guess.” Jaskier takes a long drink from this scotch. “We’re trying to find him, but these women...not all of them want to speak. A few days ago, we finally got one eyewitness to come forward. She was terribly upset, you know. She’d been speaking with one of the deceased not three days ago and then finds out from a headline that her friend was, well, butchered.”

Jaskier swigs back the rest of his drink. “She gave a description that sounded an awful lot like you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. The world may have changed, but monsters hadn’t. Succubi thrive in sprawling cities like this—Geralt did everyone a favour. 

“But here’s the strange thing: you don’t seem like a butcher.”

The tension eases from his brow. “You look like you could use another round.”

Jaskier sighs. “Please.” He gestures to the seat beside him and Geralt takes it. 

“You know,” Jaskier says, “when I was a boy I told my mother I was going to leave and sing in a travelling act. Sometimes I think that may have been a better choice than becoming a detective. Probably safer, too.”

Geral smirks. “I wouldn’t always count on that.”

* * *

In another life, Jaskier volunteers to serve his country. There’s evil brewing and he knows he must stand up to stop it. 

That doesn’t change the way he’s scared shitless. His pack and boots are too heavy. He’s so thin that he’s swimming in his uniform. What will everyone think when he shows up at the front lines like this? Even his helmet won’t stay straight on his head—it slides to one side and covers his eye. 

Still, when the truck pulls up, he kisses his mother on the brow and promises her he’ll be back by Spring.

As he climbs into the back with the other new soldiers, he wonders if he’ll ever make good on his word. He sinks down on the bench and looks at the other faces around him. 

Next to him, the man clears his throat. He’s older than the rest, with yellow eyes. Under his green helmet, the only hair Jaskier can see is stark white. 

Jaskier would’ve remembered meeting a man like this. He  _ knows _ he would have, and he certainly hasn’t met this man before. 

So why does he look so familiar?

“Geralt,” the man says and sticks out his hand. 

Jaskier shakes it. He’s strong—Jaskier tries not to think about the things he wishes those hands would do. It’s not hard to shake that thought with the fear of the war sitting on his back.

“I’m Jaskier,” he says. 

“We’re going to make it through this thing, you know,” Geralt says. 

How could he be so confident? It’s asinine—hundreds of thousands of men like them will die. 

Somehow—impossibly—Jaskier believes him. 

* * *

In another life, Jaskier is on stage, strumming his six-string guitar and crooning into his mic. The crowd cheers. The lights are almost bright enough to blind him—he can’t see any of the faces in front of him at any rate. 

Somehow, through the lights and movement of the crowd, he locks eyes with the most distinct looking man he’s ever seen. 

The night ends with Jaskier pulling that white hair and tossing his head back in pleasure in his suite at the Marriott. 

“Don’t leave,” Jaskier tells him in the morning. 

The man—Geralt, he said his name was—traces a finger up Jaskier’s chest. “I won’t.” 

* * *

In every life, Geralt knows they belong together. Jaskier surges in, like the tide, and ebbs back out again when the time comes. Geralt bides his time in the meanwhile. There are always monsters to be slayed. 

In every life, Jaskier aches for adventure. He always feels the pull behind his breastbone—the call to leave his normal life and live wildly. Sometimes he ignores the desire. Most times, he does not. 

Jaskier never says it feels like part of him is missing—he’s a complete person on his own,  _ thankyouverymuch _ —but instead, he feels that someone waits for him. And he can’t let them (whoever they are) down. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
